Read Poetry From Here And Now
NHS WORKER TAKES £1,000 UK POEM PRIZE
An entry form she picked up in her local library led to a writing career which has just won a national title for an NHS worker from Sheffield.
Pamela Griffiths (58), wrote a poem about her home village of Loxley which was judged to be the winner out of many thousands of entries for the Local Poem Competition - one of the UK’s biggest annual free poetry contests.
As her prize, she collected £1,000 in a presentation at Sheffield Central Library.
“It was a great shock to win the competition,” said Pamela, a widowed mother of three. “I’ve been entering the Local Poem Competition every year since it started six years ago and it’s been my dream to win it.” Pamela only started writing when she saw a United Press entry form in her local library at Hillsborough. “My late husband Clive encouraged me to have a go and since then I’ve published my own book Expressions of Life and had poems published in many anthologies.”
“Pamela’s poem is a traditional rhyming verse and has all the qualities we look for in this competition,” said one of the judges, Peter Quinn of United Press. “The whole aim of the Local Poem Competition is to encourage more people to write poetry. It’s free to enter and we ask people to submit a poem about someone or something local. Poems which come from personal experience often have that special ring of authenticity. They’re about things which matter to us personally. In the competition, we encourage people not just to celebrate their environment, but to describe and define it. Previous winners have been about towers, a river, village life and local history. Pamela’s poem, Home Sweet Home In Loxley Valley sits alongside all the other annual winners as a very worthy prizewinner. It’s a beautiful evocation of the pastoral, natural beauty of this country.”
Born and bred in Sheffield, Pamela is a quality and development officer at the NHS Sheffield Community Equipment Loan Service. She lives with her partner Sandy Hoffman.
“I’ve only been writing poetry for a few years, but it’s become something very precious in my life and I would recommend it to anyone,” said Pamela.
Below is Pamela's winning poem:
HOME SWEET HOME IN LOXLEY VALLEY
Our house is our haven, in a lovely spot
We wouldn’t change it, we love what we’ve got
Trees stand tall and the fields are green
We are lucky to be here, it’s so serene
In summer it’s marvellous in its glory
But in winter it’s a different story
Winter brings snow, everything stands still
Can’t get off the drive or up and down the hill
It’s worth all the hassle to live in this place
Whatever the season, Loxley shows its grace
When spring arrives it lifts our spirits high
The sprouting leaves, the clear blue sky
The birds come home to sing in the trees
As leaves begin to rustle in the warm breeze
We will never leave here, it holds us under its spell
The duck pond and the little ducks we know so well
Country lanes we drive along lead to scenic bliss
Sights around Loxley we’d never want to miss
Pamela Griffiths, Sheffield, South Yorkshire
You can read more excerpts from Here And Now below...
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POOR MOTHER SEAGULL
I watched a mother seagull
Caring daily for her young
She fed them and preened them
And watched them perch upon a rung,
One baby was killed by a fox
Having just learned how to fly
After all the mother’s care
I asked myself, why?
Now she sits alone upon the sloping roof
Waiting for the last one to return
It fluttered and fluttered trying to fly
And then spread its wings not knowing it would die
It tried to fly across a busy road
Unable to get very high
Then it was struck by a car
And I asked myself, why?
It was one of three, now all gone
There’s talk of culling them, is it really fair
When you think of the mother seagull, calling
Sitting and waiting, so lonely up there.
Violetta Ferguson
Dedicated to all bird lovers, especially the ones who like seagulls.
Born in Birmingham, Violetta Ferguson has interests including writing, knitting, outings and DVD’s. “I started writing in 1996 when my husband was in hospital,” she explained. “I have always enjoyed poetry. Everyday occurrences influence my work.” Violetta has three sons and two daughters 18 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren and her biggest fantasy is to be known for her poetry.
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THE COLOUR OF LEVENSHULME
Levenshulme green,
A small emerald gem,
Cosy cafes and summer
time’s pink clover,
With three tiny leaves.
Four if you’re lucky.
And nine if you’re going mad,
Water spirits flock out
from the fresh morning dew,
and the puddles it forms.
Moon lights under stars
at night
line the A6.
For each bus, car and bike
stretch right into town.
Passing through Longsight
that’s not far.
Rachel Van Den Bergen
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TO SAFFRON WALDEN
Take a stroll through Saffron Walden
Where the emblem is the crocus
Where the focus is the centre
As you enter Market Square
There a vibrant, teeming cauldron
Beats the heart of Saffron Walden.
Shops and restaurants pleased to see you
Friendly tea rooms with tradition
Serving fish’n’chips for dinner
Awesome thinner options too
You know where these things are all done
Quaint, historic Saffron Walden.
Ancient buildings grace the pavements
Old acquaintances are waiting
Congregating in the chapel
Where the battle each November
They remember those who’ve fallen
For their beloved Saffron Walden.
From the Town Hall to the Common
Past the foreign markets trading
Floats parading down the high street
People greeting carnival day
May these scenes fore’er beholden
Those who come to Saffron Walden.
James Dwyer
Born in Hampstead, James Dwyer has interests including writing songs, drawing and painting and playing guitar. “I started writing in 1968, I played guitar and started writing songs,” he explained. “I stopped because of business commitments but started again in 2006.”James’ biggest fantasy is to hear a professional singer interpret one of his songs and to be recognised as a good writer, and his worst nightmare is to get writer’s block.
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SPRING GLEN
Walking into a glen of the profusion
of different shades of green
arouse a sensation of peacefulness
The small pointed tips of crocuses
Reaching up into the azure sky
Bluebells gathered in groups
Dipping and swaying in the breeze.
The small boughs shaken down by sand
Crunch underfoot, going back to the soil
To regenerate the natural growth
Of each season.
Listening to the stream as it gurgles
Along the path that takes it to the sea,
Birds twittering to each other the
Season for mating is here,
Nests to be built for when the chicks appear.
People walking their dogs, children running
Having fun,
Be careful, comes the warning
Don’t worry, all is well
Comes the laughing reply.
Elizabeth Adams
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TASTEFUL FILLINGS AT STANWIX BAKERY
She was a star
That little blue car,
Though now long gone
To roads not so far,
In time to the heavenly throng.
Come now white van
Say I’m pretty if you can
All prepared for the wares,
Sausage rolls and biscuit teddy bears,
With your slick sliding door
To shelved pastries galore.
A toast you may say,
For at the end of the day
From breakfast through high teas
She caters well our needs.
David Simmons
David Simmons said: “I’ve been writing poems now and then for ten years or so. I was inspired initially by a desire to record and preserve the thoughts and expressions of my neighbour’s four year old boy, who I minded for one morning each week. Encouraged by friends I enjoy writing strong, thoughtful poems in rhyme, observing life’s experiences from birth through childhood to middle age and beyond. I spent many happy childhood holidays in a fellside village at the foot of Cross Fell, giving me an affinity with farming life and the surrounding fells.”
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THE NIARBYL FAULT
Hands across the water
clasped together at Niarbyl Bay
Fingers of sandstone
and mudstone slate
Entwined in such a manner
that no mason can imitate
Thrusting out of the Irish Sea
salt water washing hardened limbs
Barnacles cling to gnarled bare knuckles
Particles of kelp stick under dark nails
Two tectonic plates collided
in the murkiest mists of time
On the Isle of Man, independence foundered
forever fated to embrace as one
European colossus, North American giant
unable to read each other’s palms
yet secure in the knowledge
their foreseeable futures
will be rocky in their wrestling arms
Aidan Alemson
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THE PARASHOTS
Edens mid-May clarion call on air
To the men of Britain to volunteer
For the local defence The Parashots.
So that Britain should not be caught out
By an onslaught of Hitler’s parachute troops.
Sporadic raids had already began
One of the earliest high explosive bombs
Fell on the wood by Penny Pot Inn, Chartham
The day Holland, Luxembourg and Belgium
Were invaded by Hitler’s Nazi troops.
Great deterioration on the battle front
Brought thousands on Edens call to enlist
Men enrolled before the programmes end
Grateful for something we can do, they said
In this time of such great National crisis.
In Gillingham ’n Cranbrook men signed on
Kings school boys of Canterbury signed on
An old man of eighty five to sign on
Swore he was only sixty-five years old
They signed on until midnight in Folkstone
Then early next day, as they did countrywide.
They were not long getting down to their work
With military help set up barricades.
Margaret Duguid
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COME EARLY
Winter came early,
In autumn 2010,
An unusual sight to see;
Leaves still golden green,
Hanging about the trees,
White, covered in snow.
Season’s bad turn about,
Nature has her reasons.
Weather records are made,
Then broken.
Go back in history,
Happen a hundred years ago.
When early winter,
In autumn,
Come knocking at our doors.
Will this year be
A white Christmas?
The bookmakers not quite sure.
Bryan George Clarke
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TWEED TRIAD
They made their entrance one by one as if on cue,
otter, osprey, elusive kingfisher,
a line of bubbles on the surface of the tweed,
a flash of blue,
a fall, a splash, a heavy rise.
The triad had held themselves aloof from me,
till now, at dusk, at last relenting,
as if directed by an unseen hand.
I’d always known it would occur at such a time
and such a place, but not till now
could I be certain of the when.
For me a magic, long awaited moment,
for them a chance gathering,
but one in which I felt included.
Christopher H Cameron
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BRIGHTON’S FESTIVAL OF COLOUR
Grey mist rolls across the South Downs
Nestled below are two Sussex towns
Hove and Brighton, vibrant loud
Prince Regents Royal Pavilion unique unbowed
Cobbled lanes where bargains are found
A sizzling buzz, cafe’s renowned
Brighton’s May festival wears her glittering crown
Music the arts, celebrities are all in town
A carnival of colourful theatre, entertaining
Gyrating street musician, crowd vibrating
Twinkling lights, blink on the end of the pier
The big wheel turns, the screech of delight and fear
Chattering, laughing, children wide eyed
On the red and gold carousel ride
Clowns on stilts wear a deep frown
While the tumblers on hands walk upside down
Streets throng with a laughing crowd
Mime artist silent, remain unbowed
White foamy waves lap the pebbled shore
Gulls, acrobats of the sky swoop and soar
Amused the Prince Regent well endowed
Roams his royal palace bold and proud
The beating drums chase the clouds away
Brighton’s festival invites the sun to stay.
Sheila Pharo
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I SAT UP HIGH
I sat up high at Norland
With Sowerby there below
I could see the River Calder
As it twisted to and fro
And there across the valley
The hills reached to the sky
And beneath them lay those green, green fields
So restful to the eye
As I looked back that morning
I looked at them with pride
Upon that view of nature’s
Impossible to hide
So as life goes upon its way
And when I feel forlorn
I sit up here and gaze upon
The place where I was born
Derek Bottomley
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SEA LIFE
Waves slap against the face of the Victory
Spitting and stripping away at the shipyard’s dignity
Until its cranes and chains hang shamed and shivered
Waiting to take the deadweight off shipmates and skippers
Tugboats drag wounded battleships to docks
Where their stomachs are tied in butterfly knots
Where timber ribcages stick from shingle
Where the washed-up crawl into shells till shrivelled
The dock’s Mahogany Yachts bob their heads
To their brass bells and scratching decks
To high-hat-rain and waves’ crash
To the Portsmouth trawler which never came back
His shrimp ship shivered in the vanilla mist
Sending ripples through the river’s midriff
Like a chip cracking across a mirror
The spinnaker can’t glimpse its midnight shimmer
With its disc slipped and ribs cracked
The spinnaker leans on the sky’s most strapping flat
Until the Guildhall cries Pompey Chimes
Sending a shiver down its timber spine
Its rudder shudders its lumber straight
Puffing its chest out until the flashes fade
Then lets down its hair as the bridge puts up its feet
Letting out a foghorn yawn, before inhaling the creek
Alec Hallam
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DURHAM MINERS’ GALA
Awaking from slumber early on the second Saturday in July
To the sound of brass music from marching bands passing by
As ex miners and families make their way
To Durham city on Miners’ Gala Day
Families from ex mining areas countywide
March behind colourful banners with pride
Led by brass bands playing marching tunes old and new
Through Durham’s streets as the crowds grew and grew
Approaching Old Elvet and the County Hotel
Where VIP’s attending the gala dwell
Each colliery banner stops and their bands play
As the VIP’s on the hotel balcony clap and wave them on their way.
On reaching the race course the banners are displayed
And from the platform politicians and trade unions speeches are relayed
To the cathedral for the miners services chosen bands and banners make their way
Which is a fitting end to Durham Miners’ Gala Day.
Doris Turner
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VILLAGE OF HISTORY
In our village there is active life, with a community
of love. We have our allotments as all villages do,
with a school and two churches close by the village,
and a bus service leaving every hour, six day’s a week.
The untold history of long-time-past
of Cromwell and the Roundheads,
the trials of the witches from our local villages
and the Tower Field of Tawstock, stained with innocent blood.
Buildings in our village still stand, reminders of our past
with ghost hauntings of the restless spirits
whose cries can still be heard.
Life in our community is full of love of everyone -
with a playground, butchers and farm close by -
and something for everyone, fétes and activities and
the love and friendship of each other.
Jim Carlin
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WALLS HAVE EARS
I step into the past, it is early June.
Voices of dead people, all standing around.
A viola is playing a lilting tune -
Poetry, song, music yet there is no sound.
Horse-drawn carriages filled with long-flowing gowns
Curtailment prevails, not what nature intends.
Men in fine breeches, the snobbery abounds -
They are striving for more, when will it all end?
The peasants are laughing and singing out loud -
Heady, musky sweetness, rosemary and thyme,
They live for today, are not shrouded by clouds;
Enough to eat, water is turning to wine.
Who is this man they are all talking about?
Mad as a hatter, yet he still has his needs.
Eating grass with the sheep, he flounders around,
Snakes on his chest, wildness of nature he feeds.
On the edge of the Heath, a cottage lies there -
Behind forgotten walls this man did exist.
Nowadays it is cold, dark, empty and bare:
Hardy’s Domicilium high on my list.
Monica Reynolds
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FEELINGS
Why is life hard
I feel so on my guard
Which way do I turn
Left or right, that may bring some light
For me to fight and how that will feel so right.
Music is in me
Which is what I need in order to be free
My heart beats on in order for me to remain strong
Tick tock tick tock let’s try and push on
This I will try and do then I’ll feel brand new.
I don’t want to quit I want to feel fit
How do I get to the end of this very curvy bend
The corners are sharp just like the beat in my heart
I have to feel strong, my gosh I hope this doesn’t take too long
Only I can sort it out when I work out
I feel a release this makes me feel at peace
So I can carry on going forward but at times it’s extremely
awkward.
Suzie Dru Drury
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SOCRATES’ BITTER SMILE
Socrates walked down the alley,
Where half the houses belonged to wolves and
half to sheep.
Their faces raised alike from each side,
Ready to hunt or be hunted.
Between them lay a ground of stale seeds and broken birds.
Why, he asked, Don’t you change the colours of your faces?
But that’s the only glow we know, they said, It’s always been like that.
Still, flowers unfold to many perfumes. And the mirrors in your rooms can speak many languages.
But we can speak only one. It’s always been like that.
The ground is red, feeding the juices of the encounter to the seeds,
To breed new monochrome dwellers.
Socrates puts on a bitter smile, looks to the sky and drinks the hemlock.
Marianna Pliakou
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SEASONS OF CHILDHOOD
Remembering long ago childhood,
Beatrix Potter, Lucy Atwell, Enid Blyton,
Walks on the river bank, adventures in the wood.
Mr Men plasters for a grazed knee,
Grandma’s hugs and the cakes she made for me.
Imaginary friends, like a talking rabbit
And your favourite teddy bear,
The magic, special places which your best friend would share.
The seasons met with expectancy of new things to do,
Snowmen in winter, the first weeks of spring,
Summer sand castles,
And prized conkers the autumn would bring.
Wellingtons and Macintoshes,
Jumping puddles in the rain,
Memories of childhood,
Nothing is ever quite the same.
I may be Dad’s little girl, but Mum’s my very best friend.
Dorothy Butterworth
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MERE-SIDE SY 12
The trees stand tall along the water side
Because they went searching for the sun.
And way down low in their shadows
The fox learns the way of its run
A few feet out on the water
The skaters, skate and shout.
While beneath their feet and surface
The water weeds cry out
Sun, sun come shine on me.
Give me all of your rays.
Can’t get enough of your morning light,
Can’t get enough of your days.
Honeysuckle climbs upon a broken beech.
There are ferns unwinding in the shade.
As firs in variety reach for the sky
Looking for the sun’s own rays.
There is a place out there in the country I know,
Where the gorse blooms in the spring.
It’s a place where the thistle stands sentry,
It’s a place where young birds learn to sing.
Sun, sun come shine on me.
Give me all of your rays
Can’t get enough of your morning light,
Can’t get enough of your days.
T S Harris
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LONG LIFE TO MY DEAR OLD ASH TREE
Severe wintry howling winds
bombarded and threatened my ancient ash tree’s life,
a sense of scariness wrapped around
as the north east winds were keen to surround,
cutting keenly like a knife,
howling, howling, howling.
Time to trim this impressive old ash
before another arctic blow
err the branches cease to glow
in the late afternoon sun
and my ‘listed’ cottage roof is too close for fun!
Enter the living forest team
to seriously cut back
ensuring a healthy flourishing old age.
Astonishing tree gymnastics to gauge,
definitely thoroughly choreographed
as the ‘tree ballet’ moved up high and around
wisely guided by the men on the ground,
everyone clearly in harmony, it would seem,
always seeing the final shape,
deftly the keen ‘climbers’ respond to the trees energy
(their own words).
I watch utterly fascinated, all three days.
Hugging trees now has a new meaning
and similarly the capacity of the climbers for leaning!
Margaret Ann Wheatley
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SPRING TIME FOR JESS
Come with us when we go to plant
Sweet white snowdrops on hillside’s slant
Bluebells ponder dappled shadows cast
As our denim jeans go brushing past
Frosty, plumed puffs of our exertion
Disperse around our heads
And beneath forest football’s cushion,
Creatures stir in leafy beds.
All around a slow awakening
Stretching to greet unfurling spring.
Rosy cheeked you tilt your head back,
Dwarfed and awed by the ancient trees
Lime-green lichened, gnarled and black
Arthritic testament to winter’s freeze.
This perfect playground - this is Dinmore
Rediscovered by a child of two
All who walk here, struck with awe
Viewed through child’s eyes, fresh and new.
Time’s measure’s long discarded
While we explore nature’s bower
Fern-fringed ramble and berried larder
Only waning light heralds the hour.
I grasp your mittened hand as we end our roam
The promise of hot chocolate guides us home.
Michelle Layton
"Dedicated to sweet Jessica Anne and your gorgeous smiles and giggles. You brighten up everyone’s days - even when you’re mucking about."
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HEREFORD SEWAGE WORKS
Come and see where I work by the river
We make sure it’s kept healthy and clean.
No pollution to poison the salmon
Or the perch, or the swans, all serene.
I test and measure, I sample and chart
As the sewage gets pumped on its way,
The sludge de-watered, de-gritted compressed,
The liquid progresses as spray.
Biological filters, Humus Tanks
And lagoons where tomato plants thrive
Alas, you can’t walk there, the surface looks firm
But it’s swamp, you’d be risking your life.
A duck reared five young on one of the tanks
Where sediments settle below
And squirrels and foxes live here and owls
And colourful wildflowers grow.
Yes I love working here by the river
Where machinery hums and birds sing,
Archimedean screws reach up to the sky
And the Nematode worm is king.
Ursula Mills
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